Window Dressing
by Lotus Wright
Summary: She wears fifties-style dresses and hangs out with hipsters, and I've loved her since day one. Entry for P.S. I Love You Contest. Won 3rd place judges vote. Oneshot.


**This was written for the PS I Love You contest. I won third place Judges Vote, yay! Am very proud ;) Hope you like it. x**

 **Be sure to check out the other contest entries too!**

 **Twilight is not mine yadda yadda yadda/**

 **Thanks go out to Alice's White Rabbit for her excellent beta work and to SunflowerFran for excellent prereading & helping me out with the title, because I can never think of a good one. Heh.**

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She wears fifties-style dresses and hangs out with hipsters.

Today's dress is bright red, with a neckline that shows off her cleavage, but it still covers twice as much of her breasts as Rosalie Hale's tank top does. It flares out to her knees, a big, black petticoat peeking out from under the red fabric.

Her dresses are almost always bright and colorful, not as pastel as actual fifties' style clothing, although I admit my only knowledge of the era comes from watching Grease, and I hate _Grease_. Especially _Grease 2_. Shy guy getting the hot chick seems like a ridiculous daydream, if you ask me, but the most annoying part is that the shy one has to completely alter themselves to land the object of their affection, and that is neither plausible nor a sensible goal to pursue. I would never be comfortable in large groups and social gatherings, would never care for sports and clothes and parties, and as much as I was in love with Bella, I wouldn't change my entire being if that was what it took to be with her.

She's chatting casually with her friends, books clutched to her chest. The hipsters laugh outrageously at something she says. Jasper finishes a chuckle by stroking a hand through his hair, a habit he's had since he had shoulder-length hair in eighth grade, but he's deemed it necessary to put it up in some kind of man-bun these days, so his fingers get stuck. I try not to snicker; watching them discreetly would be much harder if I get caught laughing at the popular kids. I observe quietly, watching her bright red lipstick, the funky, swallow-shaped earrings she's wearing, and the way her hair is styled in some fancy ponytail. Her entire look is perfected and unique; it's not as if anyone else would dare wear the clothing Bella does.

It's Tuesday, third period. I know when the bell rings, Jacob Black will escort her to biology, then he will race to the other side of the school for his own class. It's a little pathetic, an obedient little puppy catering to her every whim even though she hasn't asked for it—as far as I know, that is—but I can't blame Jacob.

If she'd known I existed, I would have done the same.

Like Jasper, Jacob has recently decided to become a hipster. Perhaps that was the closest male equivalent to Bella's retro style; I don't know. He wore jeans so tight I cringed just thinking about sitting down in them, lumberjack shirts buttoned all the way up, and non-ironic suspenders. He'd tried, in the past weeks, to grow one of those massive hipster beards, but while his body was pretty damn huge for a sixteen-year-old kid, his facial hair wasn't quite as evolved. Instead, he added a bow tie and gelled his hair into a very sharp, very greasy side parting.

I didn't actually want to know this many details about Jacob and Jasper. It was just inevitable. Came with the territory of obsessively pining over the most gorgeous girl in school. She was always flanked by friends and groupies. Freshmen gravitated toward her group as if they instinctively knew they were the ones to suck up to if you wanted to make it in high school.

Sometimes, I wish I could be a suave guy, dressed to the nines in designer clothes and woo her. Or even just … new clothes and a bit of extra confidence. I look down at my T-shirt—a simple black one that had been washed and worn so many times it was more dark gray than black now—and the jeans I've been wearing for a year, no longer reaching past my ankles thanks to my recent growth spurt, and let out a sigh. Even if I had tried, I would've never been welcomed into the "it" crowd.

On Wednesday, she wears a mint green pencil dress with white buttons, which ends right above her calves. It hugs her curves, showing off her gorgeous figure. She's oblivious to the staring boys, to the freshman so distracted by her beauty that he walks into the lockers face-first. She smiles and chats with her loyal group of hipsters and wannabes. Rosalie Hale is there, showing way more skin than is appropriate for this bleak September day. I wonder if she ever gets cold in her miniskirts and tank tops. Alice Brandon is next to her, every inch of her skin below the neck covered in layers of black fabric. Black fingernails, black smudges around her eyes, black hair. I don't think they would have ever run in the same circles in any other high school, but this school has Bella, and Bella doesn't discriminate.

Bella unites.

Bella is that girl who's so popular she's beyond high school cliques. The hipster boys, slutty Rose, and Goth Alice aren't there to talk to each other, they're hanging around Bella. She pulls everyone in, weak little lemmings indistinguishable and replaceable, and she is the sun their lives revolve around.

And I'm a sad, love-sick, wannabe poet teenager. I'm fully aware how pathetic my obsession with her is. If it were anyone else, standing in the shadows, staring at her all day, I'd call them a creep, a stalker, and yet what am I doing? Exactly that.

Jacob makes a joke, thumbs hooked behind his brown leather suspenders, somehow taking himself seriously in that outfit. Bella's glorious laughter fills the hallway as she bends at the waist, putting her hand on his arm to steady herself, and that's my cue to leave because I don't want to watch her touch anyone else.

I groan at my own hopelessness.

The next day, it's a figure-hugging pencil skirt again, all black, combined with a red off-the-shoulder shirt, and it's sinfully sexy. The shirt's probably new. I would know, of course; I've been keeping up with this mental catalogue of Bella's appearance for eight months, ever since she transferred here.

I remember being captivated by her the moment she stepped into the school, dressed in a blue Audrey Hepburn-style dress, clutching her books, and I'd never wanted to be confident more than in that moment, to say hi and show her around.

Instead, Mike Newton pounced, jumped into her personal space and laid on the charm thick, and within hours, she was popular, and there was no chance I'd ever talk to her now. I look down at my own clothes—an old pair of khaki shorts and a sleeveless shirt with a random picture of Hawaii on it that my dad probably got from the thrift shop a few years ago. It's ugly and frayed but it's the only thing I own that's appropriate for a rare hot day like today with the temperature reaching an incredibly rare 82 degrees.

The staring at Bella is worse today. The neckline of her shirt is quite high, it's not as if she's showing any cleavage, but the skirt is tight and the bare shoulders …

Jake takes her to calculus even though he's not in her class. She says bye to him in the hallway at the precise moment I pass by to enter the classroom, and for a second, we're close enough to touch. I take a deep breath and chastise myself for being pathetic enough to even acknowledge such a thing.

Mr. Molina, the calculus teacher, is clearly not a fan of those bare shoulders, or perhaps a little too much of a fan, and he singles her out the moment she sits down.

"Miss Swan," he starts sternly. "This is not a burlesque show, it's a school with a dress code. Please, go see the principal."

I hold my breath. As far as I know, no one's ever commented negatively on Bella's style before, and I can't remember anyone ever having been sent to the principal for violating the dress code.

"Could you please be more specific how I violate the dress code, sir?" she asks. Her tone is sugary sweet but with a sharp edge.

"Don't talk back to me, Miss Swan. I'm sure you know exactly what I mean, and if you don't agree, take it up with Principal Greene."

Some classmates start mumbling and buzzing, as if witnessing the beginning of a boxing match. Bella is known as a sweet girl but not tirelessly complacent, and we're all waiting impatiently, eagerly, to see how she responds.

"With all due respect, Mr. Molina, I will argue this point with you right here instead of going to Principal Greene because if you send me away and continue with your class in my absence, that implies my dress style is more important than my education, and I respectfully disagree." Her words are calmly spoken, and yet somehow, I just know she's furious.

"Your attire is inappropriate, Miss Swan, and that is that." Mr. Molina attempts to be stern, crossing his arms, but he doesn't elaborate, and that shows his weakness. If he can't even explain why her bare shoulders are wrong, he surely can't win this argument.

"And I am asking you respectfully to indicate which parts of my attire you are alluding to, sir, so that I may understand your complaint." Her tone is icy now, and I'm amazed at her bravery. I've never had the courage to stand up to a teacher or authority figure, even Mr. Molina, who once kicked me out of class because my T-shirt was dirty.

"Your skirt and your bare shoulders," Mr. Molina finally states, equally icy. He's not used to defiance, clearly, and I can tell his face is getting red from anger.

The class begins to mumble and hiss louder. Bella is almost a saint at this school, and it's clear everybody's on her side.

Probably inspired by her friend's bravery, Rosalie stands up before Bella can reply. "My skirt is shorter than hers, and you didn't want to kick _me_ out," she states, pointing her fingers at her denim miniskirt. "And I've worn outfits with a hell of a lot less fabric than hers!"

The class murmurs in agreement. If anyone has ever defied the dress code, it's Rosalie, who would probably wear a napkin if she could get away with it.

"My skirt's above the knees, too, and hers practically comes down to her ankles!" Lauren suddenly says, exaggerating wildly—Bella's skirt barely reaches her knees. Lauren isn't in Bella's inner circle at all, and it's obvious Bella's surprised by the action as she throws her a grateful smile.

No one's pointed out anything about bare shoulders yet, which to me was the weirdest thing about Molina's argument; I mean, it's shoulders, who cares? They're beautiful, and she looks amazing, and yeah, I did some mental groaning, but that doesn't mean she should have to change. A quick look around the room shows that everyone's actually wearing clothes with short sleeves, so no one can back her up.

Except me. I'm wearing that old frayed Hawaii shirt that's one inch of fabric away from being a wife beater, bare shoulders and everything.

"We're trying to create a distraction-free educational environment here," Mr. Molina starts.

Bella, Rosalie, and Lauren are still standing tall, all adopting the same pose, hands on hips in clear defiance of the teacher. Molina just looks angrier and angrier, and I know the three girls aren't going to be enough, and I know the perfect argument to Molina's nonsense, and if I could just find the courage …

And then I think— _it's_ _Bella_. And I haven't ever talked to her in these eight months that she's been here, and she probably doesn't know who I am, but I can damn well do this. And yeah, last time I had to do a presentation in front of a whole class I almost puked, but I can damn well voice my support here. My mom taught me so much about life and equality and sexism before she died and a need burns inside me to honor her teachings. Before I know it, I'm standing up. Thirty sets of surprised eyes find me, and I clear my throat, thinking I should start to talk before I lose the nerve.

"Mr. Molina," I start shakily, almost squeaking with nerves. I clear my throat to find my voice, squeezing my own fingers into a tight fist as if that would give me extra courage. "Have you noticed that I'm wearing shorts that don't reach below the knee, and a shirt that doesn't cover my shoulders? You probably didn't, or didn't care, because no one cares about what boys wear. It's hot outside. During breaks, I'm guessing a lot of guys will even take off their shirts and walk around bare-chested, but no one's going to send them home. Barely anyone even notices. So that distraction-free educational environment you're talking about, that's just about girls' skin being distracting for boys, right?" I hardly know what I'm saying at this point, but I can't stop the words rolling off my tongue. "It's not a girl's problem if boys are distracted by their physical appearance, it's their own damn responsibility to pay attention. Sending Bella away would mean you find a few inches of skin is more important than a girl's education. Mr. Molina, your argument is insane, backward, and extremely sexist and discriminatory, and in conclusion, wrong."

I let out a long breath. I can't believe I just did that. Me, Edward Cullen, who never speaks out in class, who always stays in the shadows and hides in anonymity, just gave a passionate speech in a room full of people, without stuttering or throwing up. I called a teacher insane! I don't dare look at anyone and stare, instead, at my shoes—ratty old Converse smudged almost beyond recognition.

Someone starts a slow clap. Others join in. Before I know it, the entire class is applauding, and I'm beet red up to my ears. I dare to lift my head because I'm incredulous about this applause, but looking around shows me that, indeed, they're all applauding _me_ , and it doesn't seem to be in a mocking way.

I seek her eyes, powerless to stop myself, and find hers looking back at me. She's smiling her beautiful smile, one that I've seen tons of times before but never directed at me, and I can't quite believe this is happening. _Thank you_ , she mouths.

Miraculously, faced with the entire class's rebellion, this collective mutiny, Molina pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and gestures for us to sit down. He continues his lesson as if nothing happened, the only remnants of our revolt is the fact that he completely ignores the four of us, Bella, Rosalie, Lauren, and I, during the course of the class.

The days pass. Bella wears a navy blue dress with a pattern of swallows, a red dress with a crazy cat pattern, and a black-and-white striped one, among others. The changes, such as they are, are tiny in the grand scheme of things but monumental for me. The entire calculus class knows who I am—if not by name then, suddenly, at least, by reputation. I have never had a reputation before, having mastered the art of disappearing in the shadows, and people noticing me rocks my world in the most confusing ways.

Rose smirks when she passes me in the hallways. I think that means she's saying hi, but I'm not sure. Lauren does a weird thing with her mouth where her lips are all puckered up now, like a crazed duck; the shine of her lip gloss freaks me out. Most of the others in our calculus class nod their heads when we pass each other in school, but my actions in class have somehow spread beyond the confines of that room, and my days of being invisible are obviously over.

My favorite greeting is Bella's small smile. It's the most genuine, prettiest smile I've seen on her, but I might be biased because it's directed at me. I got embarrassingly nervous the first time she did this—I was red from forehead to chest, and almost tripped over my shoes—but I've almost gotten used to it now. Not used to in a sense that it doesn't affect me anymore, of course; a warmth still grabs my heart and makes it beat faster whenever I see her smile, my blush is nowhere near gone, and my throat dries up instantly, pathetically; but I can now somehow anticipate the effects.

I try to reason with myself that since I'm no longer invisible, I should stop trying to hide in the shadows of the high school walls. Hiding doesn't work, and I find I like it when these familiar strangers greet me.

I start to greet them back. A nod, a smile, and after a week or so, my first muttered "Hi" in response to Rosalie's greeting. She seems safe somehow, familiar; I've noticed since that calculus class that neither she nor I are just the sum of our clothes. She is more shrewd and intelligent than her barely-there outfits suggested to me, and she seems to realize that I'm not trash despite my cheap, ripped clothing.

The world doesn't shift on its axis when I greet her; she smiles and walks on, and it gives me courage. It's not as far out of my comfort zone as I had imagined, and the relief I feel lifts me up.

Most of my time, however, is still spent in dark corners of the rarely visited school library, empty rooms, and in the shade of trees at the edge of the school's property, in solitude, with a book in my hands and classical music in my ears. That, I am sure, will not change; solitude and I are the closest of friends.

One of the days I spend my free period beneath the trees, I find I'm not alone. Across from me, beneath a tree about twenty feet away, sits Bella. She's spread out a red-and-white picnic blanket beneath her so her peacock-patterned dress doesn't get dirty on Forks' wet, muddy ground. Our poses are mirror images of each other—one leg bent, tucked away to sit on; the other stretched out, toes pointing at the sky; heads bent forward to better read the books in our respective laps.

Well, obviously, I'm not reading my book anymore; I'm watching her. But still.

In the hallways, my debilitating social anxiety and hero-worship of Bella usually ensures that I make a quick getaway before I do something embarrassing. There's no escaping here, though, even if I wanted to, so when she looks up and meets my eyes, I smile and mouth the word "Hi." The second she returns the greeting, my eyes are back on my book, unseeing. The words could have been upside down or Japanese, and it wouldn't have mattered; my mind is full with warring feelings that temporarily blind me; the mess in my mind makes sure my eyes don't work. I want to be proud of myself for greeting her, but I'm so angry that this simple act is something to achieve in the first place, so angry that I'm so far away from normal, that I can't enjoy the moment. I don't look up for the remainder of the period, and when I finally look up after the bell rings, she's already gone.

I spend much more time than is healthy mentally dissecting the reasons for Bella's presence beneath the trees in the quiet corner no one ever visits but me. Why was she there? Where were all her friends? Did she go there alone on purpose, and if so, why? She is loved by almost everyone, respected by the rest, and everywhere she goes she is sure to find entertainment, admiration, and conversation. Yet she chose to sit beneath a tree and read a book. I don't understand, and the only logical explanation I come up with—that, like me, she enjoys both solitude and literature—sparks something in me and is therefore quickly cast aside.

I also spend much of the day trying to guess which book Bella was reading, which is a much more futile exercise; I didn't even see the cover. It's feeble, teenage, lovesick wondering. "I wonder if Bella is the kind of girl who reads Jane Austen," I'd think. Or Ayn Rand, or George R.R. Martin, or Agatha Christie, or maybe she's hiding out because she's secretly reading trashy romance novels with Fabio on the cover. I mentally catalogue dozens of famous authors and fabricate fantasy-Bella's opinion of them, then denounce myself for being pathetically obsessed. Again.

The weather stays nice for two full weeks, surprising all Forks' residents, and I spot Bella at our spot— _Loser_ , I think when I realize I'd named it "our" spot—almost every day. She's usually there before me, and we exchange our silent greeting. I never see her leave; it takes all my energy and willpower to look at the book in my hands instead of staring at her constantly like a stalker. I limit my staring to a few minutes every day, just enough to take in the way she looks—black dress, matching black flower in her hair, no make-up; flowy green skirt, white top with half sleeves; etcetera—and, eventually, to catch the cover of the book she's reading. A close-up of a young girl wearing heart-shaped sunglasses—the same as the one I once read at the library. Nabokov's _Lolita_. As if I needed another thing to worship Bella for. It's not an easy book, and I'm pretty sure most people our age still assume it's just a pervy book about a pedophile. I loved Nabokov's lyrical virtuoso, his subtle language, and intricate characters, how you catch yourself almost sympathizing with the narrator before again and again realizing how unreliable he is, and oh, how I wish I had the guts to start a literary discussion with Bella about the book.

Maybe tomorrow I'll ask her what she thinks of _Lolita_.

Yeah. I can do that. I'll need to practice so I don't blurt out anything embarrassing instead, but I can totally do this.

The next day, I wear my best T-shirt to school, which isn't saying much, but at least, it's clean, and actually green, not a faded tint that screamed "This shirt has been washed too many times." I usually don't care about wearing thrift shop clothes; I'd rather we spend our money on food and paying the bills anyway. But I do want to look just a little bit better in case this is actually the day I'll talk to Bella.

I spend all morning working up the nerve to say the lines I've practiced in my head. _What do you think of "Lolita" so far?_ Over and over again. Minimize the chance to mess this up. I don't even let myself think about what I'm trying to accomplish with this planned chat, or what I'm going to say after she replies.

She's not at our spot yet when I get there, and my nerves increase tenfold. I pace around the trees for a good five minutes, as if that will calm me down. That it has the opposite effect doesn't surprise me, but it also doesn't stop me. _What do you think of "Lolita" so far? What do you think of "Lolita" so far?_ It's on a loop in my brain while I curse my own character for being unable to do simple things like just … talk to someone.

I'm on my fifteenth mental _What do you think of "Lolita" so far?,_ still walking, one hand pulling at my hair, when I hear a soft voice behind me.

"Hey."

It's her voice, and I freeze, my back to her, my hand still in my hair, a giant lump in my throat suddenly present, and I know I fooled myself, I _can't_ do this. There's no way my throat and mouth will produce any sounds right now, or at least, nothing that will sound like words, but I can't just run away because _she talked to me_. I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath and turn around.

It takes a few seconds before I realize I should open my eyes and face her. She looks amused and perfect, red lipstick and long brown hair tied up in a high ponytail, a soft, emerald green dress hugging her curves. Delicate fingers hold Lolita tucked to her chest. I realize I'm giving her a lengthy once-over like a pervert, and no words will come, so instead, I focus on the book she's holding. One hand manages to make a half-hearted attempt at pointing at the cover. _What do you think of "Lolita" so far?_ My mind knows the words my mouth won't speak.

From the corner of my eye, I can see her face light up in a smile, and no power on earth would be able to stop me from looking at her now. For a second, my mind registers that I'm standing only two feet away from her, and we're face-to-face, and apparently about to talk despite my sudden muteness, but she speaks, and I push down the mixture of joy and anxiety the situation evokes in me.

"I … I got this because I saw you read it in the library a while back. Did you like it?"

This is too much information for my mind to process. She's reading _Lolita_ because of me? I blink furiously, as if that will help me make sense of what she just said. Somehow, I register that she asked me a question, and all my literary reviews of Nabokov's eloquence and genius come out as a simple nod.

She brightens more. Did my nod do that? I don't understand.

"I never thought this book would be any good, you know? But I saw you read it, and you were so focused, so entirely caught up in the world written by Nabokov, that I just had to try it. And … well, I'm not quite at the end yet; I'm reading it rather slowly because I'm savoring all the words, and I've never experienced anything quite like that. But it's blowing my mind. I wish I had the poetic agility Nabokov had, and English wasn't even his first language! It's such a complex book, layers and layers beyond the superficial skin of pedophilia; there's so much about morality, about humanity's imperfections, and oh my goodness, I'm rambling. I'm sorry. I can't shut up; I just really love it. What do you think?"

 _I really love it too_ , I think, and I smile, looking at her excited face, the spark in her eyes.

"I really love you," I say.

A beat. A moment of silence before the truth of what just happens sets in.

My smile fades into a grimace, lips making a horrified O-shape. Our eye contact changes; mine shift from admiration to wide-open terror. Hers go from excited happiness to shock.

I open my mouth to explain, something like, I meant to say I really love _it_ , the book, you know, but it's out there right now, and my throat has closed up again, so it's no use trying to think of excuses. I hate my traitorous vocal cords, allowing me only these four words. I send her one desperate, pleading look, hoping somehow she'll understand I'm silently begging her forgiveness, and then I leave.

Red-faced and embarrassed, my steps are faster than usual, my eyes trained on the ground, angry mutterings leaving my mouth. I'm almost back at the school entrance when I realize something that makes the whole ordeal much, much worse.

These were the first words I've ever spoken directly to Bella.

She was talking to me, voluntarily, and instead of the playful literary analysis of the book we both liked that I'd planned so carefully in my mind, I mess it all up.

I'll have to find a new place to hang out at on sunny days. New routes to class. All my usual high school routines will have to do a 180. I'll go from silent stalker to absolute avoidance, cold turkey. I know Bella's not the kind of person who would make fun of me to her friends, but how can I possibly face her after this?

I skip the rest of the day and go home instead. I quietly enter the small, run-down bungalow, tip-toeing around the living room. It's only one in the afternoon, but Dad's asleep, exhausted from his night shift. We share a house but live our lives at different times; his breakfast is my dinner, his daily rhythm the opposite of mine. Even at home, I rarely talk to anyone. I'm mute and quiet, shuffling about the house in my socks with slow, silent movements to avoid waking up my father. It's no wonder I had perfected the art of being invisible at school.

I talk to Mom instead, or the pale imitation of a substitute that I'm left with: a professional portrait photo that hangs on the wall behind the TV. It's a random spot for a picture, but we don't have a mantelpiece to put it on and this way, at least, it feels like you can always see her. The mother in the picture smiles happily, love radiating from her face. It's the same picture they put on her casket a year later, and for that reason, it's hard for me to look at it without seeing the entire funeral home in my mind's eye, but I try today; even solitary souls need to talk sometimes.

"Hey, Mom," I whisper, ever mindful of my dad's sleep, then I tell her the whole story of how I talked to Bella and spoke the most idiotic words I could have chosen. She offers no words of wisdom in response.

A sucker for punishment, I can't quite master the cold turkey tactic I had devised. It's a small school, and the temptation is too great, so I see her in the hallways, being escorted to class by Jasper—who has not yet given up on his man-bun and seems to be growing a mustache now—and Jacob, whose entire wardrobe is now labelled "Lumberjack Hipster."

I'm still greeted by more people than I've ever talked to, so I can't quite blend in the way I used to anyway. All I manage to change, really, is that I look away when I notice myself staring at Bella and that my face flushes bright red every time. I relive the mortification of my poorly chosen words on a continuous cycle. I hate the self-flagellation, but I seem to be powerless to stop it.

Once, I'm too late in looking away, and my eyes meet Bella's. She gives me a half-smile and a little wave, greeting me even from her position in the middle of a circle of her friends, and I manage to smile back before fleeing again.

I hide out in a corner of the hallway, one that leads to a few storage closets and is therefore usually deserted or occupied by couples making out. It's empty right now, and it feels like I'm in a quiet bubble despite the hustle and noise coming from the main hallway just a few yards away from me, the students walking past and chatting loudly. I am, once again, on the outside looking in, and I silently wish for just a little more confidence. I'm almost an adult; I should be able to converse with people like a normal person, but for all that I'm good at math, I suck at social niceties and actual words. I spend a few minutes wallowing, then decide that, in the grand scheme of things, I'm just another loser, and I should stop whining, even silently, because I've just read Malala's book, and seriously, my issues are nothing.

Just as I prepare to rejoin the loud masses of high school students, I hear the one voice I can always single out in any crowd. She sounds angry, not at all the kind and cheerful tone I've grown used to, and she's saying no. I quickly scan the crowd, thankful for my height, and find her in a corner near a janitor's closet, looking agitated and talking to James Lake. She's clearly unhappy, and he's clearly far too close in her personal space, but her usual band of friends isn't there, and no one else seems to notice. My feet move without receiving the command to do so and my ears filter all the noise around us, focusing only on theirs as I walk closer to them.

James is another recent convert to the hipster rage. The funny thing about his style is that it really hasn't changed all that significantly from a few months ago when he was trying out a tough biker image. His Ray-Bans have been replaced by thick-rimmed fake nerd glasses and his baggy jeans by the same skinny ones Jacob and Jasper seem to like, but he still wears his greasy blond hair in a ponytail and drowns his already large body in oversized leather jackets. He's a popular guy, although I've never understood why. As far as charisma, intelligence, and looks go, there isn't much there, but maybe it's the confidence that he has and I lack.

If you believe yourself when you state you're the king of the school, you become one.

If you believe yourself when you say you're a worthless and pathetic nobody, well …

"C'mon, Swan! You and I equal perfection, baby. I mean. Look at you, and look at me. Even our names would match awesomely if we get hitched. Tell me you don't wanna be Bella Swan Lake."

I throw up a little in my mouth as I listen to him laugh at his own words.

"I do not want to be Bella Swan Lake," she deadpans. "It's fascinating to see, however, that you'll even resort to talking about marriage when trying to get someone to make out with you in the janitor's closet. Answer's still no."

The bell rings. Students start to disappear into classrooms. Bella and James are still in the same position, unmoving, her back against the lockers, and his arm half-trapping her there, all dominance and stupid alpha male nonsense.

"Don't play innocent, missy," he says as he trails a finger down her cheek. I can practically feel her anger. "I've seen you look at me, parading around in those sweet tight skirts of yours. I know you want me. Just stop playin' with me. Let's skip history and explore, hmmm?"

"I said no, James. It's not a hard word to understand. Now let me go." Fury is shooting from her eyes, and he still seems to think she's into him. I'm the only witness left to this situation, and when he responds to her by suddenly pressing his body into hers, I move.

I'm not a fighter, and I'm not a jock; my only workout are the daily walks to and from school, and James probably has thirty pound of muscles on me. His back is to me, though, and he doesn't expect me, so when I hook my arm around his neck and shoulder and forcefully yank him away from Bella, he stumbles backward fairly easily.

"Stop being a dick, James," I say with confidence that seems to have fallen from the sky. "She said no. She's not interested. Bella, may I escort you to your class?" I hold out my arm at a weird angle, but she gets the idea and hooks her hand into the crook of my elbow.

It's a pretty anticlimactic end to what could have turned into an actual brawl, but we hold our heads high and walk away.

Together.

 _Touching_.

Before I have time to freak out, Bella speaks. "Thank you, Edward. You know, that's the second time you've gone all knight in shining armor on me."

I stop walking abruptly, startling Bella. "Oh. Oh, no. I hope I didn't make you feel like a damsel in distress or that you're incapable or anything. I … I don't have some manly savior complex, a-and I'm sure you could've handled both James and Mr. Molina just fine by yourself. I just … I just wanted to help. I hope that's okay. I'm sorry."

She looks at me with an amused smile on her face, and it's so captivating I forget for a second that I'm an idiot who suffers from word vomit. "Edward, relax." She laughs. "I usually _can_ handle myself, but that doesn't mean what you've done for me isn't appreciated. Really. Thank you."

Her hand slips from my elbow to my lower arm, where it stayed, soft and warm, on my bare skin. I figure I should address the "I love you" thing while my words still worked, so I open my mouth and wish for the best. "I'm sorry … for the other day?"

Well, it came out like a question, but still, pretty good.

Bella answers with another smile. If only I had convinced myself sooner that talking to her would mean I'd get so many smiles, I'm sure I would've tried this on her first day.

We're walking, although I don't remember moving at all, and we find ourselves at our quiet reading spot when she talks again. "It's okay, Edward. I was flattered."

Ugh, flattered. I grimace involuntarily.

I say nothing. If possible, I feel even more stupid than I did when I first said the words. She must think I'm such an idiot. I use the hand in my hair to cover my face as much as possible, needing to hide because the floor is refusing to swallow me whole. But then I feel her delicate fingers on my wrist, slowly coaxing my hand away from my face, and I'm powerless to do anything but look at her.

"Why?" she asks softly, and I know she's wondering how I can love someone I've never spoken to. That one little word changes my world. She looks shy, almost nervous, as if she's scared of something, and I realize that no matter our outward appearances, we're all insecure inside, even Bella. It gives me strength, somehow, because of course, I need to be _more_ for her than the insecure little boy I feel like sometimes, and this time, it's easy to speak.

"Because I can't not love you," I start, facing her. Her fingers are still wrapped gently around my wrist, and experimentally, I stretch out my fingers to touch her hand. "Because you unite people. Where there were cliques before, there is now acceptance. It's like you spread love around so much it becomes infectious, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Because you're amazingly strong and opinionated in all the best ways. Because I'm drawn to you, always have been, even if it was from a distance. And you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and I'm pretty sure I've loved you from the first time you stepped into this school."

She continues with some hesitation, a stutter in her voice I've never heard before. "Wow."

I look down, my eyes following my fingers trailing the soft skin of her wrist. "Sorry."

"No. No apologies. That was beautiful, Edward. I … I've tried to talk to you before, but …"

My fingers grab my hair in an involuntary motion, and I sigh. "But I tend to run."

She looks a little sheepish. "Well, yeah."

"It's … you're a little intimidating. Or a lot. And … I have trouble finding words around you. I get lost in you sometimes. Sorry, that sounds creepy, I know." I force out a laugh. God, I'm sounding more and more deranged as I go. "It's just … I mean, look at you, and look at me. These are two entirely different leagues. You're like a celebrity on the red carpet, and I'm the bum staring from across the street."

Bella lets go of my arm. I wait for her to say she's convinced now that talking to me is a stupid idea and that I'm quite possibly a nutcase. She digs around in her purse, pulls out a sleek leather wallet, and practically shoves it in my face. "Look," she says. On the inside of her wallet, there's a small picture of a girl with messy, frizzy hair and braces, wearing what seems to be a simple gray T-shirt. It's a slightly younger version of Bella, I see instantly; her eyes, her freckles, her lips, and the shape of her face are easily recognizable and just as gorgeous as today. "This is me two years ago. That gray T-shirt was the best piece of clothing I owned. We were dirt poor, Edward. My mom and me. And I was bullied so much about it. Kids are cruel. They thought it was hilarious when I had to wear second-hand knock-offs, but my braces were so expensive we couldn't afford new clothes. They laughed at the cheap shoes I wore for far too long, but my mom has Crohn's disease, and her medication was more important than my shoes."

I was silent. For a long time, I had felt that Bella and I were somehow kindred spirits, as cheesy as it sounded, and I always had to work to convince myself I was being delusional.

She let out a sigh and put her wallet back into her purse, grabbing my hand once again. "My mom married Phil, a rich guy, and we moved here. With his money and the move, I had the chance to start over completely. I'm not going to lie and say I don't love my position in this school's hierarchy, that I don't rejoice every day in not being bullied anymore. But the clothes are superficial. I am not my clothes and neither are you. I want to say I would never judge anyone for their outfits … but I'm no saint. Have you seen Jacob recently? He's so uncomfortable in his tight jeans and suspenders. He hates the clothes he spends hundreds of dollars on. That, I judge a little, yeah."

I chuckle at her joke. I'm way beyond overwhelmed by her presence, her words, her story.

"I'm not that different than you, and there's definitely no leagues to speak of."

I snort at that. "Look, not to put myself down, but even aside from the clothing, yeah, we are different, and I'm only ever one of two things: the invisible kid or the freak who stopped socializing and talking for a year after his mom died."

I state it matter-of-factly. My social status doesn't usually bother me, it's just a fact of life. But Bella looks almost angry at my words.

"Would you stop that? You don't believe that."

"It's the public opinion. It's all they know of me." I shrug.

She shakes her head. "Do you want to hear what I know about you?" She barely pauses, not giving me time to respond. "I know you like to listen to classical music because I listened once when you had only one earbud in, and I could hear the Chopin nocturne playing. I know you lose yourself completely in good books but have no patience for bad ones; your forehead scrunches up, and you start muttering at the pages. I know you have amazing taste in books because I've been using your choices as a personal reading list for the past six months. I know you're an amazing artist because I've seen you doodle sometimes, and you draw the most amazing caricatures. I know you could be the male spokesperson for equality and feminism because you truly believe in it, and you have such strong convictions that you stand up against what you know is wrong, even if it means getting up and talking back to a teacher in a full classroom. I know you love the quiet and solitude because you seek it out, but you don't actually hate people, and you don't actually want to be invisible. You've lit up the past few weeks, ever since more people started noticing you. But I've always noticed you, Edward. You've never been invisible to me."

My mind is a hurricane of thoughts and feelings, a complete overload fueled by hope and confusion. I'm sure I look ridiculous, just watching her silently, trying to absorb her words _. I was never invisible to her._

Flashes of memories pop up in rapid succession, as if my brain just now decides to show me how limited my own point of view has always been. Bella's annoyance with Mike Newton on her first day. Bella shaking her head at the fakeness of her friends' sudden transformations into wannabe hipsters. Bella reaching out in my direction, opening her mouth to speak, but then me, running away before she can because I was somehow sure she would make fun of me. How often our eyes met in the hallways even if she was talking to her friends. All the times I'd catch only a glimpse of her bright dresses walking past in the library, even though I felt as if I was always the only one there. She'd been there; she'd noticed me, had noticed the books I read, even. It seemed too ludicrous to be true, and yet, there was no doubt in my mind she was speaking the truth.

"I love what I know of you, Edward," she says softly, interrupting my whirlwind of thoughts. "Will you let me get to know the rest of you?"

"This doesn't make any sense," I blurt out because it's the only thing I'm sure of. My world has changed so quickly, so thoroughly, none of it is processed yet.

"Why?"

I feel another surge of frustration. I know I'm stuck on my earlier argument, but I can't help it. "Because you're still the popular girl. Beautiful, rich, well-dressed. Everyone follows you around. And—"

She interrupts me. "Have you ever thought that I don't really want to be followed around? I'm not a hateful person, and I value my friendships, but so often, I crave the easy, peaceful solitude that … well, that I find with you, right here, beneath the trees sometimes."

I pinch the bridge of my nose as if that will help anything. "Being alone together is not a reason to like someone."

Her face turns into a scowl. "That's not what I'm saying, and have you not been listening to that whole speech about me paying attention to you?"

"Yeah, but …"

Bella makes a sound that resembles a high-pitched growl; the frustration is evident in her face. "Edward," she says slowly, deliberately. I pause my thoughts and just look at her, taking in her frown, the spark in her eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks, and finally, it clicks what she's saying. We're in two entirely different places in the high school hierarchy, but as people, we're sort of the same, and it's been quietly drawing us toward each other, each of us getting to know the other from a distance. The realization stops my confused thoughts and need takes over. I raise my hand to her face, pushing away a stray hair, taking the opportunity to touch her cheek.

"Edward," she mumbles as she leans into my touch. "You said you love me. Do you?"

I nod. What else can I do? I am touching her, close enough to her face that I can see the flecks of gold and green in her brown eyes, the individual lashes and freckles, a small scar above her right brow. "Absolutely," I whisper.

She lifts her hand, echoing my movements, before she threads her fingers through my hair. "Let me love you back?" she whispers.

I'm so focused on her words and the close-up view of my fingers caressing her skin that all my doubts end up on the periphery, forgotten, and I purely follow instinct as I lean in, bringing my face to hers.

It's a chaste kiss, nothing passionate like in the movies or what Emmett and Rosalie do on a daily basis, but it's everything to me. From the second my lips touch hers, I'm lost in all the best ways and home at the same time. Her fingers tighten their hold on my hair, mine spread out to caress her, touch her, to bring her as close to me as physically possible.

Slowly, our lips move against each other, exploring, nipping, teasing. I could lose myself in her forever, I know. I can't really believe what's happening, but I'm definitely not going to question it right now; she's kissing me back, and that's all I need to know.

We stand there for what feels like hours, savoring each moment, all soft touches and caresses. When we come up for air, we both refuse to put more space between us than absolutely necessary, and I'm overwhelmed by a feeling of warmth, of home,that I've never felt before. I know we'll look like an odd couple, with all our perceived differences, but we know better, and that's all that matters.

~ _fin_ ~

* * *

 **Reviews are the best. Please leave me one? :)**

 **Note: I have not forgotten about Looks Bad on Paper and WILL continue it when my life stops being insane and busy. It'll be a few weeks before I have time, though. Am currently very busy organizing & hosting the Beyond the Bedroom contest - come find us on facebook if you haven't already! **

**I was also once persuaded to make my own facebook group, which I did. There isn't too much going on there right now, but hey, come say hi anyway at Lotus Wri(gh)tings. :)**


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